Electric Boogaloo
by Twinings
Summary: Why yes, this is a substandard sequel.  But to what?  [CAT]
1. Foxy Firefighter

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

_www. freewebs. com/ catverse_

_Follows "The Word."

* * *

_

The most appropriate question in such a situation was perhaps, "Where are you taking me?" Or possibly, "Why is the hallway on fire?" But the Joker would never answer questions like that, so Jonathan Crane looked up at Harley and did the best he could, under the circumstances.

"What's up, doc?"

She giggled and patted him on the head.

"Don't worry about it, Professor. Just let us take care of everything.

And because this was Arkham, where things rarely made sense anyway, and they always skimped on the painkillers and overdid it with everything else, he was content to relax into the movement of the wheelchair and let go of any thought of struggling against his fate.

How bad could it be?

He tried not to think about the answer to that.

--

"Are you sure he's going to be up for this?" Harley asked dubiously as she wrestled the barely conscious Scarecrow into the back seat of the purple convertible.

"Who cares?" the Joker answered.

"Well…_he_ might. It's supposed to be his party, after all."

The Joker's smile faded into a rare expression of total seriousness.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Harley flinched, knowing she'd made a mistake. Of course this wasn't about the Scarecrow, no matter what Puddin' said; it was always about him. She cast a nervous glance at the building behind her. Arkham always looked more cheerful with a hole in it, but someone was going to come along and try to spoil their fun any minute.

"Puddin'? Maybe we could talk about this on the way home?"

"No, Harley. I want to talk about it now." Before she could blink, he had her on her back across the hood of the car. As was frequently the case, she couldn't tell if he wanted to hit her or kiss her. Either way, she delighted in his closeness. She could smell the cologne she had given him for Christmas. Obsession.

"I'm sorry, Mr. J. I forgot. It ain't about him. It's about you. It's all about you."

He leaned in close and kissed her on the end of her nose.

"Good girl." She squealed with joy. "Now get in the car and drive."

--

Other than the occasional mumble of, "Ease off the gas, Techie," there were no signs of life from the back of the car. Once or twice, Harley was sure she'd lost him somewhere back there, whipping around a curve on two wheels. Mr. J loved finding new shortcuts, but he never told her to take a turn until after they'd passed it. She would never dream of finding fault with that, but…she just hoped he never told her to steal an SUV.

Miraculously, the Scarecrow was still there when she crumpled the hood of the car against the fire hydrant in front of the hideout. She didn't even stop to play in the water.

"Well, Puddin'? Now what are we gonna do with him?"

The Joker shrugged.

"I dunno." He ruffled her tassels and went inside.

Harley allowed herself an exasperated sigh. Always the same. She called for Rocko to take care of the new guest. She had shopping to do.


	2. Naughty Nurse

It didn't smell like a hospital. But what was it?

He didn't want to open his eyes and find out.

There was no soft drone of female voices gliding through lines of poetry or an adventure story, no smell of hot soup or soothing herbal tea. If those things had been present, he would have opened his eyes long enough to deliver a glare and a nasty comment, and then drifted off to sleep, content in the knowledge that he was as protected as he would ever be.

But the girls weren't there. Wherever he was, it was not a place where he could consider himself safe, and he didn't want to see.

Eventually, though, it had to be done. He would have sold his soul for a shot of morphine and a glass of water. And while he very much doubted that this was going to be a case of "Ask and ye shall receive," it was becoming increasingly obvious that no help was going to be offered without his asking for it.

Jonathan opened his eyes just enough to determine that there wasn't enough light in the room to cause him any severe pain. Good. He did so hate to wake up feeling wrongfully hung over, with the cheery morning sunlight stabbing into his brain.

He tried opening his eyes a little wider. Wherever he was had no windows. The lights weren't on, but he could dimly make out the cracks around the doorframe, and the light of the room beyond leaking through.

He couldn't hear anything.

What else was there? He was lying in a bed, one more comfortable than a hospital bed or a prison bunk, but nothing the girls would have deemed acceptable for him. He was warm. A little too warm, but it was better than shivering. His head ached with the kind of dull insistence that shut down all higher thought processes. His left arm was still in a cast. He wanted to sleep.

His cataloguing of physical sensations didn't offer much. Could he get up? No.

The doctors at Arkham never volunteered any information, and he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of asking what was going on, but he had paid attention to their conversations when he could. He knew what shape he was in, though not how long it was going to last. The words "swelling" and "pressure" had come up a lot when they didn't think he was listening, along with the sentiment that the world would be a better place if he never climbed out of his bed again. As if the inability to walk would in any way hinder his ability to do his job. Maybe a figure in a wheelchair wouldn't do much to inspire fear in his victims, and maybe he wouldn't be able to do much in the way of physical labor, but that was what he had minions for.

Besides, the idiot doctors had no idea what he was capable of. He would recover to spite them, if for no other reason, and he would personally stamp out the lives of the five still living who had done this to him.

He flexed his toes and smiled, dreams of lengthy vengeance dancing through his head. Maybe he wasn't walking yet, but he was farther along than they suspected. And just as soon as he got a little rest and everything stopped hurting, and maybe when the room stopped spinning around quite so much, he'd show them. He'd show them all.

Vengeance was coming, and it was going to be sweet.

That thought would keep him going for a little while, at least.

* * *

_Author's note: Short chapters. Sorry. More to come. Really really._


	3. Charming Cheerleader

By the time Harley finished all her errands and made it back to her Puddin's hideout, she was completely exhausted. She couldn't think of anything she wanted more than a hot bath and a good night's sleep.

But a harlequin's work was never done. She had to go and check on the Scarecrow; after the way Rocko had manhandled him getting him out of the car, Harley had no faith that he had been tucked away and treated the way an injured man needed to be. She couldn't live with herself if anything happened to poor Professor Crane, who had always been so nice to her. More importantly, she couldn't live with the Joker if she let anything happen to his audience. Whether it was her fault or not, she'd be the one in trouble. So she checked.

He was still alive. Good for him. But he looked like a man who'd seen better days.

"Hiya, Professor Crane," she chirped as she flipped the lightswitch. He winced. "Whatcha doin' lyin' here in the dark?"

He didn't exactly glare at her. His glassy-eyed stare was more like that of a deer in taillights than anything else. But she knew there must be anger under the pain. Even Puddin's jokes at her expense ceased to be amusing when she hurt too much to smile. Especially if she was lucky enough to get herself drugged up.

She held up the glass of water and the bottle of aspirin she'd been holding behind her back. His eyes widened slightly.

"Thirsty?" she asked brightly. He said nothing. "Silence means no," she teased, and started to turn away.

"Wait!" His voice was hoarse, strained; it was only too clear that he wasn't going to be able to respond well to jokes. She pranced over to the chair beside his bed and made herself at home.

"I know this won't do much against the pain, but it's better than nothing." She spoke like the doctor she had once been, and he responded by tacitly submitting himself to her authority. She dropped a couple of pills into his good hand and watched as he swallowed them, following up with a sip of water. He was having trouble sitting up on his own, but she made no move to help, merely waiting for him to break the silence. Eventually, he did.

"Why am I here?"

"Same reason as anyone else," she answered. "Mistah J wants you here."

"_Why_?"

"It's a surprise," she giggled. He visibly wilted before her eyes. "What's the matter? You don't like surprises?"

"No, Harley. Especially not the Joker's surprises."

Well, that did seem reasonable. She couldn't help remembering Dr. Strunk, the ill-fated psychiatrist who had suffered a fatal heart attack when the newly-escaped Joker burst out of the trunk of his car, seltzer water in hand.

He really _should_ have seen it coming.

"I'll tell you somethin' for nothin', if you still think you can act surprised. We sprung you for a very good reason. We're throwing you a party. Now, don't forget to go 'ah!' when they jump out at you."

"Ugh," was his most coherent reply.

"Oh, don't tell me. You don't like parties, either." Puddin' was right. He was a stick in the mud. "You'd better try to enjoy it if you want to make it out alive."

"Fine," he sighed, with no strength for argument. Harley patted him on the head, only just barely taking note of the way he flinched.

"When it's all over, you can go home," she said comfortingly. "Al misses you."

"Oh, good," he mumbled. With a fond smile that was very nearly sane, Harley set the water and the open bottle of aspirin where he could reach them. He was still loopy from the Arkham quick-fix cocktail. Maybe by party time, he'd be able to pay attention to her advice. And if not, at least he wouldn't be able to get his point across if he found the joke unfunny.


	4. Steamy Secretary

Periods of full consciousness came and went at unpredictable intervals. The aspirin was as useless as he had expected, and the water was soon gone and never replaced. He had never felt less like dealing with the Joker.

Unfortunately, the Joker had never been very accommodating.

"Good morning, Scary! Rise and shine!" He clapped his hands enthusiastically. "Wakey, wakey! Eggs and bakey!"

Jonathan's stomach growled. He tried not to think about eggs and bacon.

"What do you want, Joker?"

"Is that my thanks for extending my hospitality in your time of need?" He perched on the back of a chair, balancing precariously.

"I'm not being a very good guest. Maybe I could go home, and we could try this again later."

"Oh, no, Scary. I wouldn't hear of it. Blondes or brunettes?"

"Blondes or...what?"

"Blondes or brunettes?" the Joker repeated. "Gentlemen prefer blondes." He frowned. "Or redheads. Do you like redheads?"

"Not...not especially."

"Then what _do_ you like? You never talk about yourself, Squishy."

Feeling as if his heart had skipped a beat, Jonathan did his best to sit up.

"_What_?" he said coldly. The Joker grinned.

"Sorry, old man. Slip of the tongue. Did you know Techie talked in her sleep? Oh, never mind--of _course_ you knew that."

Now he did manage to sit up all the way.

"What did you do to her?"

"Oh, didn't you know?" the Joker asked with childish innocence. "She stayed with me while Harley was away. Nice girl. Really filled out a sweater."

In the past tense?

"What did you _do_ to her?"

The chair toppled over. The Joker sprang to his feet.

"Hey, man, she never told me she was married."

Jonathan Crane was not the type to hurl threats at a man just for hurting someone close to him, someone he didn't even think of as a friend if he could help it. But Techie _was_ his...employee. Like it or not, she was part of his life. He knew her, and it wasn't pleasant to think of her taking the same abuse that Harley had accepted for herself.

The girls would have been so proud of him for caring in spite of himself.

"Did you hurt her, yes or no?"

The Joker raised his right hand, finger and thumb held an inch or two appart. He narrowed the distance, indicating just a _little_ bit of harm, which, in the Joker's mind, could have meant almost anything.

But he didn't have to worry about it. As long as she wasn't dead, she could avenge her own mistreatment, breaking the Joker's legs while Al and the Captain held him down.

Maybe he'd bring popcorn. And everything would be back to normal.


	5. Sexy Schoolgirl

Speaking of normal, the scene in Roosevelt High School's gym was anything but. Not since homecoming night had so many people packed themselves in there under the antique disco ball.

And what a group. Everyone was there--_everyone_. Hugo Strange was off in a corner with Nite-Wing, holding forth on the Freudian aspects of a villain's chosen name. A nervous-looking Kirk Langstrom was looking as if he'd like nothing better than to get away from the Monk and the Werewolf. Clayface was happily annoying Killer Moth by reenacting a fight best forgotten. Killer Croc was snapping his teeth at Lock-Up, who was gagged and securely chained to the basketball goal, to the amusement of the assorted group of Kite Man, Signalman, and various other low-end rogues.

Arnold Wesker would surely have been part of that group, had he not been so busy trying to hide Mr. Scarface from Victor Szasz, who was playing with a pocket knife and not looking too friendly. Wesker had tried and failed to secure the Mad Hatter's top hat as a hiding place; Tetch had simply muttered something about tea, shouted, "I want a clean cup! Move down!" and dashed over to the punch bowl, where he would spend the next few minutes listening to the Riddler and Cluemaster debate the uses of 1337.

The Penguin and the Great White Shark were finding common ground. Captain Stingaree and the Cavalier were scoping out the rickety stage together. Firefly and Firebug were right behind them, discussing where to set the explosives to best take down the building with maximum pyrotechnics. Not far from them, Deadshot was talking to Black Mask, looking for a job or the sweet release of death; it wasn't easy to tell. Two-Face was giving his undivided attention to Headhunter, who was quite enthusiastic about shooting people twice in the head. Doodlebug was a little overly interested in Crazy Quilt and Mr. Polka-Dot.

And Mr. Freeze and Catman had both simultaneously decided that accepting the Joker's invitation in order to avoid a happy death was one thing, but it wasn't worth standing around with a bunch of people they didn't like if the Joker wasn't even going to show up.

Freeze was just opening the door when the Joker appeared, making a grand, nearly explosive entrance that broke the doors.

That man was hell on doors.

Catman looked at the Joker, then at the Scarecrow--masked but still clearly feeling murderous, stuck in a wheelchair with the Joker's arms around his shoulders.

"Surprise," he stammered. Startled, a few other guests echoed the word with even less enthusiasm.

It wasn't what the Joker had asked for, but it seemed to be good enough to satisfy him. He shoved the chair inside and stepped back.

"Get the guest of honor settled in, would you, pussy? I've got to see a man about a horse." He scampered off.

"Um..." Catman looked to Mr. Freeze for help.

"Enjoy the party," Freeze said ironically, and took his opportunity to leave.

Catman smiled nervously at the Scarecrow.

"Uh...hi." His only answer was a steely glare. "So, um...what's the occasion? The Joker didn't say."

"I have no idea."

Wow. Blake had never been more eager to escape a situation. Not even the time he'd accidentally disrupted one of Catwoman's robberies, and she'd chased him halfway across town, offering to shove her whip up the orifice of his choice.

"Okay...How about something to drink?" Receiving no answer, Blake took up his position behind the wheelchair and pushed it over to the buffet table, frantically searching for a way out of his assigned duties.

The Mad Hatter turned to stare at them as they approached.

"No room," he said. The Riddler stepped forward.

"I'll take care of him. You go find a scratching post."

Blake didn't wait around to be asked twice. He disappeared into the crowd as Jervis, Arthur, and Eddie surrounded the Scarecrow.

"What's this party all about?" asked Arthur. Jonathan remained stubbornly silent.

"A very merry unbirthday!" Jervis guessed. Jonathan's eyes narrowed.

"Don't. Sing."

Jervis blinked carefully, then smiled.

"Have some wine!"

"Eat me," Jonathan snapped. Eddie took another hasty step forward.

"Okay! Why don't we just go somewhere quiet and leave our nice friends alone," he said, as if he were speaking to a stubborn toddler. He rolled the chair over toward the bleachers, juggling his drink as he did so. "You know, if you want to get your brain erased, this is the place to do it."

"I'm not in the mood for this. Go away."

"Oh, take the stick out. You have to stay here for a while. You might as well _pretend_ to enjoy it."

Jonathan grunted belligerently. Eddie suppressed an irritated sigh.

"And you could be a little more polite to the man who's giving you a ride home."

"The...what?"

Eddie rolled his eyes.

"You didn't think we were just going to leave you with the Joker, did you? Believe me, if any of the girls could have snagged an invitation, the Frohike would be waiting by the front doors...or what's left of them. As it is, I'm your best bet. The minute the Joker forgets why he wants you here, we can head out."

Jonathan sagged, letting his head rest against the wall.

"Really?"

"Do I lie? And don't worry if you need to pass out. I'll wake you up if he comes our way."

"Why?" Jonathan murmured.

"Come on. Your friends are my friends. They're already weepy enough without a dead Squishykins."

"Don't call me that, Edward. _Never_ call me that."

"Sure thing. Now take a break." He raised his glass in a toast and took a sip.

Oh, that tasted awful. Whatever it was, it wasn't punch, or if it was, it had been spiked with something that definitely wasn't vodka. Surreptitiously, he spat it out behind the bleachers, emptying his glass as well.

"I'm going to warn some people away from the punch. You hang out until I get back."

"I do not 'hang out,'" Jonathan grumbled.

"Be good?" Eddie suggested.

"I don't do that, either."

"Just relax."

"_No_."

"Be an asshole and make it impossible for anyone to be friendly or helpful."

"Go away."

"I don't know how you're still alive." He wandered away to have a word with Jervis and Arthur, who were comparing their own glasses of punch with evident suspicion.

"It was all very well to say Drink me,' but the wise little Alice was not going to do _that_ in a hurry," Jervis was saying.

Arthur looked annoyed by the rambling. Eddie decided to cut it short for him.

"If you drink much from a bottle marked poison,' it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later," he said. Satisfied, Jervis put his cup down. Arthur took the hint and did the same.

"Maybe if we point Croc this way, no one will have to worry about the punch."

Eddie had to approve. Even if Killer Croc didn't end up drinking it all (without noticing anything wrong, and probably without even being affected) chances were good that he'd manage to knock over the table. Either way, the Joker wouldn't be offended that no one was drinking his punch. Problem solved.

Unless there was some drug in there that would turn him violent. No one wanted to see that. At least, no one who had any fondness at all for his own arms.

"Maybe something a little less--"

The lights went out. Eddie hit the floor and rolled under the table, trying to cover his mouth and nose with his sleeve. He could hear everyone else stumbling around in panic as they realized that turning down an invitation from the Joker might not be more dangerous than accepting, after all. And everyone had come armed. The shooting, gassing, and biting was going to start soon even if the Joker didn't have anything in store for them, and Eddie very much doubted that many of the nervous rogues were going to take the time to aim.

Then a bubbly female voice rang out in the darkness.

"When the spotlight comes on, please don't hurt me."

There was a general murmur of assent, but still, when the light flashed on, it was accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a couple dozen automatic and semi-automatic weapons having their safeties taken off.

Miraculously, no one fired. That may have had something to do with the fact that the girl held within the circle of light was quite unimaginably stunning.

Blonde and petite, she held herself in a languid pose with her back against a pole that certainly hadn't been in the middle of the stage a moment before. Her blue plaid skirt, too-tight school sweater, and knee socks were enough to get most of the weapons pointed away from her; the cherry sucker in her mouth took care of the rest.

Eddie, Arthur, and Jervis crawled out from under the table to get a better view.

The girl slowly pulled her sucker out of her mouth, letting it catch on her bottom lip.

"Hi," she said in a voice as sultry as Jessica Rabbit's. "I'm Lisa."

"Close enough," Jervis whispered. Arthur shushed him.

"Welcome to Jonathan Crane's bachelor party, and thanks for letting me live. Now, who's the lucky fella?"

No one answered; most of them were too busy whispering, "Bachelor party?" and wondering what the hell was going on. Eddie started sidling back to the bleachers where he'd left Jonathan. The girl pouted sexily.

"Oh, come on, Professor Crane, there's no need to be shy. Where are you?"

The Mad Hatter raised his hand. Arthur grabbed his arm and pulled it back down.

"I've been _such_ a naughty girl, Professor." Eddie blushed in sympathy as he heard the Joker cackle. From somewhere, music started to play.

At least it wasn't going to be boring.


	6. Bawdy Bunny

"Oh, Professor, I'll do _anything_ to get an A."

Eddie tried not to laugh to hard at the way Jonathan snarled at the poor girl.

"Do you know what I would have done with a student like you when I was teaching?"

"Tied her up and spanked her," Lisa guessed. Jonathan transferred his glare to Eddie.

"You _had_ to point her in my direction."

"It wasn't me, it was the Clock King. She would have eaten him alive."

Lisa leaned over, making what was left of her costume--a thong, the knee socks, and a pair of gold tassels--seem even _more_ revealing.

"Well, handsome, since you're sitting down anyway, do you want a lap dance?"

"Do you want to die screaming?"

She leaned over to whisper something in his ear. He stiffened. She whispered something else. He threw his head back with an angry growl.

"_Look_ at me, you waste of oxygen! Exactly how much feeling do you think I have from the waist down?"

"Trust me, you'd feel it. I'm very good."

"You'd have to be, wouldn't you? The deep throat center is the only part they left intact when they scraped out your brain matter to make those implants!"

"They aren't implants," she protested. "Go on, feel for yourself."

"Jonathan, everyone's staring," Eddie said cheerfully, through clenched teeth. Signalman was holding up a camera phone, just waiting to snap a picture.

"_You_ feel. Tell him what he's missing," said the stripper. Eddie tried not to look too much like a deer in headlights.

"I--uh--" He cleared his throat. "If--if you insist."

"I can't feel my legs!" someone yelled. Eddie scowled.

"You wait your turn!"

Just then, a playboy bunny came tearing through the door, staggering along with a broken heel, terribly out of breath.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," she gasped. "The clown girl said--Wow, nice costumes. You like like the real thing. Hi, cutie." She tapped the Mad Hatter on the nose.

"You must be mad, or you wouldn't have come here," he said rather breathlessly. She looked confused.

How odd. But it did make sense. Eddie had to admit, it hadn't been a bad idea for Harley (who must have done all the work, even if the Joker took the credit) to hire a backup in case the first stripper ended up baked inside a cake. And at least Harvey was smiling.

Ten minutes later, on the arrival of a vision from the Garden of Eden, he revised his opinion. This wasn't clever, he thought as the Joker shot the newcomer in the head. It was just mean.

She bled green. Cackling, the Joker went after the bunny while Lisa hid behind Jonathan's chair. Bang, bang. Jervis wiped perfectly normal red blood off his face.

"She was Miss March," he said sadly.

Lisa tugged on Eddie's sleeve to get his attention.

"I'm not going to get paid for this, am I?"

"You'll find your paycheck tucked between pages thirteen and fourteen of your TV Guide."

"Thirteen and fourteen?" She frowned. "That's a no."

"She's smarter than she looks," Jonathan muttered.

A purring, statuesque Catwoman impersonator appeared in the doorway. The Joker didn't even give her time to blink.

"How many of these people are going to show up?" Eddie wondered. The Joker bounced over and presented his gun to the Scarecrow.

"The next one's all yours, birthday boy!"

"It's _not_ my birthday."

Eddie considered intervening before Jonathan took it into his head to shoot the Joker, but he didn't trust his own ability to dodge with Lisa clinging to his ankles, trying to use him as a human shield.

Then another stripper showed up.

"Oh, shoot her!" the Joker urged. "Shoot her, shoot her, shoot--_him_?"

Oh, Harley. The girl just couldn't help shopping for things _she_ would enjoy. She probably didn't recognize her own attraction to the muscular man in a black mask, but seeing a Batman, even an impostor, staring down the weapons of every man who had ever wanted him dead, brought a smile to Eddie's face.

The Bat-stripper's gaze was riveted to the Scarecrow.

"Oh, not again," he moaned, and turned and ran.

"After him!" the Joker shouted gleefully.

Eddie stared at Jonathan while the rest of the partygoers followed the clown and the stripper outside. Jonathan glared back.

"Well, Nygma, do you have something to say?"

Eddie considered the gun still clutched in the other man's hands, and decided that whatever had happened in the past was probably the girls' fault, anyway.

"Do you want to get out of here?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

And so they left while no one was looking.

Not that anyone would have had a problem with it, since they took the stripper with them.

* * *

_Author's note: Thanks for reading. This is going to be the end of this fic, because I just plain don't have time to write the tender reunion before I hop on a plane and get outta here. But...you know, use your imagination. And maybe someone else will write that bit, eh?_

_Hint, hint?_


End file.
